Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss Poems that take a thousand years to die But ape the immortality of this Red label on a little butterfly .

My God died young. Theolatry i found Degrading, and its premises, unsound. No free man needs God; but was I free?

I don't read reviews about myself with any special eagerness or attention unless they are masterpieces of wit and acumen, and I never reread them.

No author has created with less emphasis such pathetic characters as Chekhov has.

I adore you, mon petit, and would never allow him to hurt you, no matter how gently or madly.

If I correctly understand the sense of this succinct observation, our poet suggests here that human life is but a series of footnotes to a vast obscure unfinished masterpiece.

Ideas in modern Russia are machine-cut blocks coming in solid colors; the nuance is outlawed, the interval walled up, the curve grossly stepped.